


somewhere very near (just around the corner)

by badritual



Series: Exchange Fic [54]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Don't copy to another site, Grief/Mourning, Haunted Houses, Haunting, M/M, Major Character Undeath, POV Alternating, Post-Episode AU: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, Reunions, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29561292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badritual/pseuds/badritual
Summary: After the events ofInherit the Earth, the Winchesters go on a totally routine hunt in an attempt to get their sea legs back under them. Or so they think.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Exchange Fic [54]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705675
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66
Collections: Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Reunion





	somewhere very near (just around the corner)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeAreTheLuckyOnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheLuckyOnes/gifts).



> This was written for [WeAreTheLuckyOnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheLuckyOnes) for the Profound Bond discord's [Reunion](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PBExchangeReunion) exchange! I didn't manage to get to the porn, but I _am_ considering a porny epilogue if you're interested! ([Join us if you're 18+!](https://discord.gg/profoundbond/))
> 
> Cas’s song is [Liebestraum No. 3](http://youtube.com/watch?v=2FqugGjOkQE) by Franz Liszt.
> 
> The title is adapted from [this speech](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_King_of_Terrors) by Henry Scott Holland, entitled "The King of Terrors."
> 
> My eternal gratitude to [clavicular](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clavicular) and [Mere_Mortifer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mere_Mortifer) for for letting me bounce ideas off of them, helping me work out plot things, and betaing!
> 
> (There are some spoilers in comments/replies.)
> 
>  **Additional Warnings/Notes:** A character(s) expresses suicidal ideation. No character(s) attempt/commit suicide and there is no actual character death.

Dean’s trying to tease out the answer to a particularly sticky Saturday crossword clue when Sam drops his laptop on the war room table and settles into the chair across from him. Dean doesn’t even bother looking up. He chews on his pen cap and frowns at the folded newspaper resting in front of him.

“Found something weird,” Sam announces, sliding the laptop across the table to Dean. “Put the puzzle away, dude. You’ve got smoke pouring out of your ears.”

“I almost had it,” Dean mutters, but he pushes his pen and newspaper aside anyway. “What’ve you got?”

Sam grins and shoves his laptop at Dean. “A good, old fashioned haunting.” 

Sam knows. He _knows_ Dean’s probably going to see through this act for what it really is, and he’s going to call him out on it. He’ll call him a mother hen, accuse him of trying to manage him or something, and they’ll argue about it. 

It’s been almost a month, and they haven’t taken any new cases. There _have_ been hunts since Chuck split and Jack and Amara took over Heaven, of course. Just not catastrophic, world-ending ones. No more apocalypses, no more angels or demons. Just normal—for relative values of normal—salt-and-burns. The kind of stuff he and Dean had cut their teeth on as kids. 

But Dean’s been brushing him off, using the dog as a shield. Like he does now.

“We can’t just leave Miracle, Sam,” Dean says. “Who’s gonna take care of him while we’re gone?”

“Eileen already offered to do it?” Sam nudges the laptop even closer to Dean’s hand where it rests on the tabletop. “Or what about Claire and Kaia. They’ve been taking it easy too. Playing house, Jody said. Dogsitting would give them something fun to do. Just need to pack up some food and his doggie bed.”

He doesn’t miss that Dean’s index finger is idly tracing the blocky **S** in **CASTIEL**. 

“You went over my head,” Dean says, hand stilling on the table.

“We’re taking this case,” Sam counters, gesturing to the computer. “Just read the article.”

Dean sighs, rubs his thumb between his eyebrows, and drags the laptop over. “ ‘Authorities puzzled over string of mysterious deaths,’ ” he reads aloud, pausing to give Sam a tired eyeroll. “Seriously? This’s kid stuff, Sam.”

Sam sits back and folds his arms over his chest, tipping his chin up at Dean challengingly. “Keep reading.”

Dean surprises Sam by complying and scrolling down the article. “Tongue cut out, heart removed, yadda yadda… Well, maybe this just got interesting. Werewolves, do you think?”

“Werewolves don’t cut out tongues,” Sam points out. He wraps his hand around his still-steaming cup of coffee. “At least, not according to the lore.”

Dean leans in close and frowns at the screen, brows creasing. “Listen to this. All the victims spent their last night at a local B-and-B. How cute.”

“Doesn’t it seem like something worth checking out?” Sam asks, taking a sip of his coffee. 

Dean sighs, steepling his fingers under his chin for a moment before dropping his hands. His index finger finds the **T** of **CASTIEL** this time and starts tracing the sharp lines he’d grooved there with the tip of his hunting knife after their victory over Chuck. 

“I dunno, Sam.”

“We’ve hardly left the Bunker in the last month. We’ve pushed case after case on the other hunters. It’s time we got back in the game. And, frankly,” Sam says, “you look like you could use the fresh air.”

Dean shoves the laptop back over, but, Sam notes, the thrill of victory curling warmly in his stomach, his shoulders slump in resignation. Dean’s given in. They’re going to work this case.

It’ll be just like the good old days.

* * *

It takes Dean only a few minutes to haul out a duffel bag and toss in some clothes and toiletries. He grabs his stash of fake IDs, his phone charger, and a paperback he’d picked up in the checkout line at some dingy gas station a few weeks ago. He hadn’t paid much attention to the book as he snagged it off the rack, had just wanted something to occupy his time when it was Sam’s turn to drive. When he got back to the waiting Impala with the book, a Saran-wrapped slice of day-old pie, and a six-pack of beer, Dean had been dismayed to find out it was a cheesy romance novel. 

What’d really shocked him was Sam hadn’t even given him a hard time over it. Dean had been expecting some good-natured ribbing, but his brother only glanced at the title and gave him a nod.

Dean pauses and scans his room. Feels like he’s forgetting something. 

Then he sees it. Still hanging from a hook on the back of his closet door. Dean strides over and touches the beige fabric, wondering if he should bring it along. Sam might notice it though, might start asking questions. 

Dean sighs, letting his fingers trail down the creased sleeve of the coat. It hadn’t even been the one Cas was wearing when he was taken. It was one of his spare trench coats, one Dean found in the room he sometimes stayed in when he wasn’t flapping off somewhere on official angel business or whatever.

That memory—drunkenly shuffling into Cas’s room at the asscrack of dawn with a cardboard box to clear out the things he’d left behind—turns queasily in Dean’s stomach and he feels a wave of sick wash over him. It’s been nearly a month. He should able to think about it without wanting to run to the nearest trash can or toilet bowl and dry-heave.

Dean lifts the coat off the hook and gently touches one of the wrinkled lapels. The material is stiff and splattered with mud, in dire need of a washing. He tucks his nose under the collar and breathes deep. It still smells like Cas: a mixture of some noxious cologne he’d picked up somewhere, sweat, and something bright and clean.

Dean closes his eyes, curls his fingers in the collar, and presses his cheek against the unwashed coat. He can almost sense Cas here in the room with him, filling it with his warmth.

When he opens his eyes, he sees a shadow pass across the wall and then it’s gone. Unfounded hope starts blooming in his chest and he stamps down on it, buries it deep before clearing his throat.

“Cas?” Dean calls out to the empty room.

Christ, he’s really losing it.

Dean unclenches his fingers and carefully folds the coat, placing it in his duffel atop his Ziploc bag of toiletries and the paperback. 

“You almost done packing?” Sam thumps down the hall and raps his knuckles on the doorframe. 

Dean clears his throat and throws a smile on his face for his brother’s benefit. “Yeah, Sammy. Good to go.” He zips up his bag and slips the strap over his shoulder. “Miracle taken care of?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, giving Dean a once over. “Claire came by for him a few minutes ago. Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Dean nudges past Sam and into the hall.

“I dunno. You seem…” Sam mercifully trails off into silence.

Dean tosses both their bags in the trunk of the Impala, then climbs in and starts digging around in the center console for a cassette. He riffles through his assortment of Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Metallica, Van Halen while Sam waits patiently in the passenger’s seat, twiddling his thumbs. 

Sam’s eyes snag on one of the tapes and he reaches out, tapping his finger against it. “What about this one?”

Dean glances down and scans the label on the tape. “Classical? Really?” 

Sam gives an awkward, one-shouldered shrug. “Me and Cas listened to it once. When we were on a hunt together.”

“Classical. In the Impala’s tape deck,” Dean spits out, his throat suddenly tightening, eyes suddenly stinging. For some reason. “I’ve never been more insulted in my life.”

But he puts the cassette in the tape deck anyway and stabs blindly at the buttons. 

“Here, let me.” Sam knocks Dean’s clumsy hand aside and pushes **PLAY**. 

The song definitely isn’t Dean’s usual style, but it—it’s nice, he thinks. It’s so easy picturing Cas kicking back in the Bunker guest room, sliding on a pair of headphones, and listening to this. Maybe drifting off to the music, head drooping onto his shoulder, dark hair feathering across his forehead. 

Something painful sinks its hooks into Dean’s chest and tugs hard. He manfully pushes it away. 

Sam starts drumming his fingers on his knees. “I remember he liked this one a lot,” he rambles on. “ _Lebenstraum_. No, _Liebestraum_. Said it reminded him of—”

“Don’t,” Dean says, turning the key in the ignition with trembling fingers. He doesn’t—he can’t. The Impala rumbles to life and vibrates under them as they idle in the garage. 

“Dean,” Sam tries. 

He’s got that tone to his voice. That do-gooder, super-concerned-for-you-bro tone that Dean absolutely can _not_ deal with. Not now, probably not ever. 

He holds up his index finger and Sam falls silent. Dean stares out the windshield, zeroes in on the gravel driveway that winds ahead of them, picks out individual colorful pebbles. “ _Don’t_.”

Sam slouches down low in his seat, shoulders slumping. “We’ve gotta talk about it sometime.”

“When’s talking ever helped anyone?” Dean mutters, throwing the car into reverse and jamming his foot on the gas. 

Sam has nothing to say to that.

The Impala lurches out of the garage, does a one-eighty, and chews up gravel as it peels down the driveway. The Bunker entrance shrinks in the rearview mirror, growing tinier and tinier until it’s vanished completely.

* * *

The bed-and-breakfast turns out to be this cute, quaint, gingerbread confection of a place that looks like it’d been plucked out of a fairytale and plopped right down in rural Illinois. 

Dean seems mostly unimpressed, eyes skating over the building before returning to the screen of his cell phone. 

Sam slides into an empty spot and kills the engine. “I’m gonna dive into the research a little bit, look into the place and its history,” he says, as he tosses the keys into Dean’s lap. “Or you can handle the lore, if you wanna mix it up this time.”

“Abso-friggin’-lutely not,” Dean says, pocketing the keys and stuffing his phone in his jacket pocket. “I’m not spending another night cooped up in some musty old dump reading bone-dry academic gobbledygook.”

“Did you seriously just say gobbledygook?” Sam asks. 

“Am I wrong?” Dean gets out of the Impala and hipchecks the door shut. 

“Anyways,” Sam says, clambering out from behind the steering wheel, “this place is anything but a dump. Look at it, it’s magnificent.” 

“It’s a house, Sam.”

“I could see myself bringing Eileen here,” Sam muses, leaning his elbow atop the Impala’s roof. A glowing image of Eileen, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders in chestnut waves, flits through his mind. 

Dean makes a dismissive noise. “Just take her to the Super 8 on Iowa,” he says, going to the back and popping the trunk. “Less than fifty per night for a room.”

“I’m not taking my girlfriend to a skeezy motel.” Sam joins Dean and grabs one of their bags of gear. 

“Oh, so you admit it. She _is_ your girlfriend.” Dean drags out the weapons bag and unlatches the false trunk to sift through some of the stuff they couldn’t safely squeeze into the weapons duffel.

After grabbing an extra handful of rocksalt rounds and stuffing them in his jacket pocket, Dean shuts the trunk and locks the Impala up. 

“What’s our cover this time,” he asks, shouldering the strap of his duffel bag. “Couple of antiquers on a roadtrip?” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Cute, Dean. Doesn’t have to be elaborate. Just believable.”

Dean pulls his wallet out and sifts through laminated sleeves. “We could be doctors in town for a conference.” He flashes one of his many fake IDs at Sam.

Sam squints at it, then wrinkles his nose. “Dr. Frasier Crane?”

Dean stuffs the wallet back in his pocket. “Nobody ever really looks at these things anyway,” he says, slapping Sam on the chest and pointing to the bed-and-breakfast. “Let’s get going, Niles.”

It turns out Dean is right. The receptionist, a little old lady with stooping shoulders and a cloud of blue-white hair atop her head, gives their IDs a cursory glance before sliding a pair of keys across the varnished wooden countertop to Sam. The chipped nametag pinned to her blouse says **Dolly**. 

“This one’s our honeymoon suite,” Dolly says, as she slips out from behind the counter. “Got a panoramic view, very romantic.”

Dean punches Sam in the shoulder a little harder than usual. “Did you hear that? It’s romantic.”

“Yes, I heard,” Sam mutters, rubbing his arm. He nods to the old lady. “Isn’t that the room where the, uh, unpleasantness happened?”

The woman’s eyes widen in surprise, like she hadn’t expected them to ask about that. She scratches at her puff of hair. “You’re not with one of those podcasts, are you?”

“Podcasts?” Dean asks.

The old woman wrinkles her nose and scowls. “The last one that rolled through really caused a ruckus. Kids called themselves the Gorehounds, something distasteful like that,” she says. “Got our guests all spooked outta their minds.”

“Ah,” says Dean. “Amateurs.”

“What?” Dolly asks.

“Nothing,” Sam says, offering her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “We’ll be going now. Thank you.”

Sam stuffs the keys into his pocket, grabs his bag, and ushers Dean to the stairs. 

“So we’re not the only ones who’ve been on the case,” Dean says, jerking his arm away from Sam. “Wonder if those meddling kids found anything useful.”

“I’ll check ’em out, see if they have a website,” Sam says, as they trudge up the stairs. “You could check out the other guests.”

“Yeah,” says Dean. “I—I could do that.”

He sounds dreamy, distant, and Sam puzzles over that, turns to him slowly with a question forming on his tongue. 

Something slams into Sam from behind, hard, and he goes sprawling, his duffel bag skidding across the hardwood. Dean spins around, hand sliding under the back of his jacket for the gun Sam knows he keeps tucked in the waistband of his jeans. 

Sam pushes himself up on his knees and catches sight of a vaguely person-shaped blur darting around the corner. 

Dean grabs him under the arms and then he’s hauling him back to his feet, slapping at the front of his jacket for imaginary dust like a fussy parent.

“Sam! Sam, you okay? What _was_ that?” Dean flips the collar of Sam’s jacket down.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, frowning. 

“Think whatever it was is our kinda thing?”

Sam sighs heavily and sweeps a hand through his hair. “I think we’re going to find out, one way or another.”

* * *

While Sam gets busy sifting through his piles of research—which mostly consists of old newspaper clippings and some reference books he’d lifted from the local library—Dean starts unpacking his duffel, digging out the paperback and Cas’s coat. 

He hastily stuffs Cas’s trench coat into his pillowcase and flops on the bed, artfully arranging himself so that he looks natural and not at all like he’s just stuffed an old unwashed coat into a pillowcase. 

He grabs the remote off the nightstand and clicks the TV on, thumbing down the volume when Sam makes a face at him. 

“So,” Sam says, jabbing a finger at a pile of old newsprint. “There’ve been six deaths at this place over the last sixty years.”

“And no one’s ever found that suspicious?” Dean asks, reluctantly dragging his attention away from a rerun of Jerry Springer.

“They’ve been spread out over the years,” Sam says, shrugging. “There wasn’t really much of a pattern to go on until this year, when the most recent deaths all happened within a few weeks of each other. ’Til this year, the authorities had dismissed them all as accidents or suicides.”

Dean sits up against the headboard and draws his knees to his chest, looping his arms around them. “So, what? Did they seriously not look into it any deeper than that?”

“People see what they wanna see, I guess,” says Sam, frowning down at a computer print-out. “The first death occurred on the grounds in the winter of sixty-one. Seventeen year old girl found floating in a nearby creek with rocks in her pockets. Police ruled it a suicide.”

“Heart and tongue intact?” Dean asks, getting off the bed with a weary sigh and joining Sam amidst his mountains of research. 

“Looks like,” Sam says. “That was just the most recent death. There’s really no pattern to them. First one was the drowned girl. The next one, thirty-something male found floating in a pond on the property a few months later.”

Some barely perceptible weight settles over Dean’s shoulders like a shroud. “Suicide?”

“Nope, accidental drowning this time,” Sam says, as he flips through his print-outs. “Until the last one. The last one was unusually brutal. Local cops thought it might be an animal attack.”

“How’re they so sure it’s connected to the others then?” Dean asks. 

“They’re not,” Sam says. “It’s just another in a long line of weird deaths that’ve occurred at this place over the last half-century. Pretty big coincidence, though.”

Dean leans in to get a better look at Sam’s research. The local paper had devoted half the front page—after the fold—to the apparently accidental death of a high school athlete. 

The pixelated image of a beaming sandy-haired teenager in a baseball uniform stares out from the clipping. His smile is a crescent of white; when Dean blinks, the kid’s Colgate-bright grin is imprinted on the backs of his eyelids in reverse. 

“ ‘Star athlete Eric Sanderson dead from apparent overdose,’ ” Dean recites. He looks at Sam over the newspaper. “Think the old lady could be involved?”

“Didn’t pick up any weird vibes from her, but can’t hurt to do a little background check,” Sam says. “This last dead kid, Eric. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that he got caught up in something he couldn’t handle. The only death that doesn’t really fit is the most recent one.”

“Maybe,” Dean allows. “But I dunno, man. This one feels weird.”

“How so?” Sam asks.

He groans, scrubs his hands over his face, and looks longingly at the minibar in the corner. “It’s just a feeling. I can’t shake it.”

Sam looks up, brow scrunching in concern. “What’s up?”

Dean’s about to respond when something flickers at the edge of his field of vision and he whirls around, hand flying to the back of his belt where he’d stuffed his gun. 

The only thing that keeps him from whipping the weapon out is Sam’s hand gripping him tight by the shoulder. 

Dean slips his hand out from under his jacket and turns back to Sam. “Tell me you saw—”

Dean doesn’t finish the sentence. _Can’t_ finish the sentence. Sam hasn’t moved from his spot at the table.

* * *

“Dude. Maybe the ghost attached itself to you.” Sam jumps up from his seat and circles the table to Dean’s side. His brother eyes him warily. “What?”

“You seem way too excited about the possibility,” Dean snaps. 

“I mean, you almost never hear about this sort of thing, ghosts attaching themselves to people,” Sam says, resting his hands on his hips. He attempts to temper his excitement for Dean’s sake, schooling his expression into what he hopes is a neutral mask.

“Yeah, sure, but we’ve seen it before.” Dean rubs nervously at the back of his neck. “Hell, last time it was _your_ high school bully.”

“That was different,” Sam says. “We don’t have any prior connection to this place or whoever this ghost might be.”

Dean starts pacing, his chin tucked into his hand. “Maybe it was attracted to me somehow.”

Sam manages to swallow down an ill-timed joke at his brother’s expense. Instead, he says, “You might’ve picked something up when we were checking in.”

“I didn’t touch anything. Just the bell.”

“Do you feel…okay?” Sam asks, leaning in and peering into Dean’s eyes. They aren’t cloudy and his pupils aren’t dilated either; in fact, he seems _fine_. “You don’t look any worse for the wear. Physically, at least.”

“I feel _fine_ , Sammy,” Dean says, pushing Sam out of his space. “That’s the thing. I feel fine. Except…”

Sam watches him closely for—he isn’t even sure what he’s searching for anymore. Dean looks mostly okay, if a little more tired, with more bags under his eyes than usual and a stoop to his shoulders that hadn’t been there yesterday. “Except what?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Dean says, waving a hand behind his head. “Just this odd feeling that came over me. Like there—there’s something here, Sam. I can feel it in the air.”

Sam gets up and goes over to their bag of weapons and gear, digging around carefully until he finds the EMF reader. After he powers it up, he brings it over to Dean and waves it down the length of his torso.

The reader emits a low hum, but nothing more than that. 

“If there’s a ghost, it hasn’t attached itself to you,” Sam says. “Or it’s not a ghost at all. What acts like a ghost but isn’t?”

Dean runs his hands anxiously through his hair, scrubbing over and over. “Dunno. Skimmed through some of your books earlier but nothing caught my eye.”

“Well, as long as it’s not a ghost possession.” Sam forces out a hollow laugh as he sets the EMF reader down, next to a stack of books. “Dunno about you, but I’m beat. I’m gonna hop in the shower and then call it a night.”

Dean eyes the minibar again. “Might have a nightcap and crash, myself,” he sighs.

Sam leans over and pats his brother on the shoulder. Dean glances down at the back of Sam’s hand, a thin line creasing between his brows.

“What is it?” Sam asks.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says, but he shrugs Sam’s hand off his shoulder anyway.

* * *

Dean doesn’t dream. Or, rather, he doesn’t remember his dreams. It’s something he started noticing after Cas yanked him out of Hell. At first, he’d blamed Cas for wiping the slate clean, so to speak, but eventually Dean had come to realize it’d been all him. 

With the kind of life he’s lived, he figures it makes sense he can’t recall most of his dreams when he wakes. Sometimes he catches glimpses here and there, but nothing he can really grab hold of. 

It’s why this particular dream Dean’s having stands out all the more. He knows right off the bat, somehow, that it’s different because of how solid the floorboards feel under his boots. When he puts out his hand and touches the flowery wallpaper, it holds firm under his fingertips. Definitely a lucid dream.

It takes him a few seconds to realize he’s standing in the hallway of the bed-and-breakfast, right about where Sam got his clock cleaned earlier in the day. Dean hadn’t gotten a good look at whatever had run Sam over, he only knew it hadn’t been human. 

Dean reaches under the back of his jacket for his gun, but the space where he usually keeps it tucked into his belt is empty. He looks down at his hands and he’s surprised to find he’s holding onto a knife he doesn’t remember bringing with him. 

The lights in the hallway begin to flicker and Dean only has a split second to consider them before the bulbs start popping in a shower of glass and sparks and heat.

He rolls to the ground and wishes, not for the first time, that he’d had his shotgun on hand. Shattered glass rains down on his head and Dean throws his arm over his eyes as a slow chill rolls through him like a crushing wave.

_Who are you?_

The sound of shattering glass abruptly stops, and when he’s pretty sure the lightbulbs are no longer exploding, he lifts his arm away from his eyes. 

A dark shadow looms in front of him, close enough that it blots out all remaining light in the hallway.

Dean stares up at the shadowy figure, tightens his fist around the hilt of the knife, and drives at the thing, plunging the blade deep into its chest. 

The creature cants its blank, featureless face at Dean. 

_I mean_ , what _are you?_

The shadows leech away slowly. Blue eyes blaze like bolts of light, illuminating the darkened hallway, and a familiar mouth pulls into a wry half-smile. Dark hair stands up in haphazard, finger-combed tufts.

“Cas?” Dean staggers forward, yet somehow ends up on his knees in front of the angel, staring up at him in wonder. He reaches for him, fingers scraping at the material of his coat before catching hold. 

Cas looks down on him, a beatific smile gracing his lips. He stands there, haloed by a broken ceiling fixture that emits a dull, pulsing yellow light. 

_This is your problem. You have no faith._

“I’ve missed you,” Cas says, offering his hand to Dean. 

“Are you the ghost me and Sam are hunting?” Dean asks, grasping tightly onto Cas’s hand and hauling himself to his feet. “I miss you. I—I—Cas—”

“I know you do, Dean,” Cas says, grazing his thumb over Dean’s knuckles with a touch so light he’s half-sure he’s just imagining it. 

He knows this is all a dream, he knows he’s going to wake up alone in an unfamiliar bed, but Cas’s thumb brushing across the back of his hand feels so real it’s almost enough to draw tears to his eyes.

“There’s so much I never—” Dean wants to say so much more, but his throat closes up on him and his eyes sting. He swallows hard past the catch in his throat and tries to blink the tears away, but it doesn’t help. They just keep coming and he can taste the salt of them on his tongue. “All those years, and I never…”

“It’s okay,” Cas tells him, pressing a hand over Dean’s chest firmly. “I’m right here with you. I’m still here.”

“It’s _not_ okay,” Dean says, jerking away from Cas. “You died thinking I didn’t—”

He can’t make himself get the rest of the words out.

Cas’s fingertips graze his cheek. “Dean—”

“I tried to be who you thought I was.” Dean catches Cas by the front of his coat, digs his fingers into the coarse fabric and pulls him closer. “I tried so hard, Cas. All I wanted was to be someone you could be proud of. That guy you said all those things about. But it’s too hard. I’m _not_.”

“You haven’t let yourself feel it,” Cas says, reaching down and wrapping his hands around Dean’s wrists. “Any of it.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Dean asks, pressing his forehead into Cas’s shoulder. “What if I just…”

“No, Dean,” Cas says, stroking his fingers through Dean’s hair in gentle passes. “This place. Its foundation is rotten. Both you and your brother need to leave. Now.”

Dean turns his head and presses his face into Cas’s neck. “Wherever you are, let me come with you,” he mumbles, clutching at Cas, trying to pull him closer. “I—I could do it quick. My gun has to be here somewhere, must’ve dropped it. I’ll make it quick and painless. Then I’ll be free and we can be together. I can make it quick and we can be together, Cas, it’ll be perfect, you’ll see.”

It’s in the moments after the words come out of his mouth that Dean tastes the wrongness of them. Something cool and slippery brushes against the back of his mind, an oily counterpoint to Cas’s steady hand cupping the back of his head. 

“You’ve got to fight it,” Cas says. His hand slides out of Dean’s hair. “She’s angry and she’s only getting stronger. She showed me what she did to the last victim. The man who had his heart and tongue ripped out.”

“That was the one death, the one puzzle piece we couldn’t fit,” Dean mutters, reaching up and pressing his thumbs into his eyes. Something sharp claws at the inside of his skull now. He tries to fight against a sudden heaviness that’s seemed to turn his bones to lead. “It didn’t fit, it’s not right. It’s…”

“He rejected her,” Cas says. “She was angry.”

“And the other victims?”

Cas’s eyes flare in the dark like twin pilot lights. “They all said yes.”

Dean’s hands shake. He hungers to touch Cas again. To twine himself around him.

Forever. It would be so easy. He could have Cas forever if he just got his gun and—

There’s a flicker of white in the corner of his vision. A fluttering of wings. An angel’s wings. 

No. A tan coat torn and stained with mud. Pretty red lips twisted into a bloodless smile.

_Say yes, just say yes, let us be together forever._

Cas grips Dean tight by the shoulder and shoves him hard. Dean stumbles back, falling forever, and— 

—snaps his eyes open to find himself flat on his back in bed, staring up at a wobbly ceiling fan. He sits up slowly, groaning, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“You okay?” Sam’s concerned voice blasts through his thoughts like a bullhorn.

“How much did I drink?” Dean mutters, swinging his legs out from under the comforter. 

“Not much, really,” says Sam. Dean hears the clinking of empty bottles. “Couple El Sols, that’s it. You were bitching about a migraine, though. Probably why your head’s a mess.”

“Right,” Dean grumbles, dragging a hand down his face. When he turns his head, the glint of metal catches his eye. His gun sits on the nightstand, safety off. “Did you fuck with my gun last night?”

“No, why?” Sam asks.

“Safety’s off,” Dean says, picking the gun up carefully and clicking the safety back in place. He pulls open the nightstand drawer, shoves the Gideons Bible aside, and stuffs his weapon under a notepad. 

“You must’ve been messing with it or something,” Sam says, bringing over two cups of steaming coffee. He sticks one of the cups in Dean’s hand. “I was buried up to my eyeballs in research last night.”

Dean sips his coffee thoughtfully. “Had a weird dream,” he says. “About the case.”

“Yeah?” Sam gazes at Dean over his coffee. 

“You won’t believe me,” Dean says.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Try me.”

“I saw Cas.”

* * *

“He can’t be a ghost,” says Sam, as he taps at his laptop keyboard. “The EMF didn’t pick up anything.”

“It didn’t pick up the thing that’s doing these poor bastards in either,” Dean snaps, as he throws open the minibar and digs around until he comes up with a bottle of water. “Four bucks a pop for freakin’ _bottled water_?”

Sam scrolls down, down, down until he hits the bottom of the web page and sighs. “If it’s not a ghost, maybe it could be a revenant. Or a dybbuk.”

“A _what_?” Dean brings his water over and joins Sam at the little table by the panoramic window. 

Sam glances out the window with a tired sigh. The little pond—where the drowning victim’s body was found—had been drained and now it’s just a sad depression in the earth. He tugs the curtains back in place. Some view.

He sits back in his chair, drawing his hands over his face and leaving them there for a moment to block out the light. It still seeps in through the gaps between his fingers anyway. 

“This case is frustrating the hell out of me,” Sam says, “and now we’ve gotta consider the possibility that Cas is involved somehow.”

“He’s _not_ involved,” Dean snaps, and Sam lowers his hands.

“What makes you so sure? He’s dead, he could be—” Sam starts, but Dean slams his fist on the table and sends papers scattering to the floor. 

“He’s not involved in this, Sammy,” Dean all but snarls. “He’s not some _thing_ we’re gonna hunt down. Got it?”

He’s going to have to take a different approach with Dean, Sam realizes. He thinks about the cassette tape and the old trench coat he’d seen Dean stuff into his pillowcase. He drags his gaze from Dean’s furious, bloodshot eyes to the knot of his fist resting on the tabletop next to an empty beer bottle. 

Sam’s seen what festering, unchecked grief can do to people. How it can latch on to somebody and twist them into something monstrous and unrecognizable. They both have.

Sam draws in a breath and lets it out in a long, heavy sigh.

“You’ve gotta consider the possibility that Cas is tied to this ghost somehow,” he says, gently, holding his hands out to Dean in supplication. “It can’t be a coincidence that he’s here.”

“Sam, I can’t,” Dean says, shoulders flagging. 

Sam knows he’s fighting it, waging an inward battle with himself. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, steels his spine. 

“This whole place is rotten,” he continues on, touching Dean’s arm lightly. Hoping the contact will ground him. “I had a chat with the old lady last night, after you crashed out. It took some coaxing but…sixty-one years ago, she bought this place with the money she inherited after her husband died. Brought her teenage daughter out here to get away from the city.”

“What are you saying, Sam?” Dean asks. He tries to tug his arm away, but Sam wraps his hand around his wrist.

“The daughter suffered from depression. Back in the day, that wasn’t something they really talked about much,” Sam continues. “Something happened, Dolly wouldn’t tell me exactly what. But her daughter killed herself. Went to the creek and stuffed her pockets with rocks, then jumped off the bridge.”

“The first victim,” Dean says, the fogginess in his eyes clearing with the realization. 

Sam nods. “Guess she wasn’t a victim,” he says, letting go of Dean’s arm. 

“She was,” Dean says, turning his head toward the window and staring off at something in the distance. Probably the pathetic drained pond. “She was a victim of this place.”

An unsettling chill turns Sam's blood to sludge. 

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“You were right, Sammy,” Dean says, looking back at him. “This place is rotten to its foundations.”

Sam nods slowly, then stops completely. Everything, the blood pumping in Sam’s veins, even his heart, stutters to a stop. 

Dean’s eyes spark with an electric shock of blue.

* * *

_He’s trying to keep us apart. You have to stop him._

Someone—something guides Dean’s hand to Sam’s gun where it sits on the table and curls his fingers around it. 

_He’s keeping us apart._

The gun rises and Dean is almost surprised to find it’s his hand that’s lifting it. Aiming it right at his brother’s chest. 

“Dean,” Sam starts, rising from the table, lifting his hands. “This isn’t you.”

 _It’s the only way we can be together._ Cool, stiff fingers curve over his jawline. He feels a shiver of cold air on the side of his face.

Dean tightens his finger in the trigger. 

Icy breath touches his lips, curls in his nostrils. It smells like freshly turned earth, masking something vaguely rotten. 

_I just don’t want to be alone anymore, I can’t be alone anymore, they all leave, they always leave. I need you with me. We can be together. Forever. You’ll never be alone. Be with me, forever._

She’s right. He has to do this. If he stops Sam, everything will be fine. He won’t be alone anymore. He’ll never be alone.

Dean feels her fingers sliding over his, guiding him. Silently urging him to do what needs to be done. 

He grits his teeth, steels his jaw, and cocks the gun.

“Dean, _listen_ to me,” Sam cries out. “You don’t want to do this. I know you don’t.”

Harsh words scrape their way out of Dean’s throat. “What makes you so sure about that, Sammy? This is the only way, this is how it’s gotta be.”

“You have to fight it,” Sam says, holding his hand out to Dean. “This is what she does. The ghost. This is what she’s been doing this whole time.”

Dean tries to press down on the trigger, but finds resistance. He blinks sweat—or maybe tears—out of his blurry eyes. 

“I just want this to be over,” Dean grates out. His throat is raw, aching. “I’m tired of feeling like this all the time.”

“It’s feeding on your grief, Dean.” Sam comes closer, close enough that Dean could press the barrel of the gun into his brother’s chest if he wanted to. His hand wavers ever so slightly. “This whole damn place is feeding on your grief. Gaining strength from it.”

“No.” Dean shakes his head, attempting to fight off Sam’s words as much as he’s fighting himself to fire the gun. He presses a hand to his head to save off a burgeoning headache that throbs in his temple.

Something sharp and painful digs its claws into his mind. Dean collapses to his knees and the gun clatters out of his hand to the carpet. He doesn’t even attempt to stop Sam as he darts forward and knocks the gun away with the toe of his boot. 

_Don’t you want to be with me? Isn’t this what you want?_

Dean lifts his head and blinks at the haze that clouds his vision. The image of a girl shimmers in front of him, pretty at first. But when she floats closer, the skin melts away from her bones, revealing a skeleton clad in a tan, mud-splattered coat and strips of putrefying gray flesh. Her cloudy blue eyes roll in her skull and her jaw unhinges. 

_We could’ve been so happy together_.

“I’m sorry,” Dean gasps, clutching at the tattered hem of her coat. “I’ll do better next time, give me another chance, I promise I’ll do better. Just don’t leave.”

There’s a sudden riot of sound that leaves Dean’s head ringing. When he spins around, he finds Sam clutching a shotgun in his hands. Some of Dean’s rocksalt rounds lay scattered on the table, across Sam’s folders and papers. 

When the ringing in his ears subsides, the fogginess in his head fades away too. Dean looks down at his hands and flexes his fingers slowly, as if to check that they really belong to him. 

“She’ll be back,” Sam says grimly, setting the shotgun back on the table. “We can’t exactly burn the place down, though.”

Dean sits back on his haunches and rubs at his stinging eyes. Scraps of images from his dream flicker back and forth in his mind like candleflame. “Cas said he rejected her and she was angry,” he says.

“Who did?” asks Sam. “Cas?”

“No. The last victim. The one with his heart and tongue ripped out,” Dean says, dropping his hands and shoving himself to his feet with a groan. “He saw it.”

“She brought Cas here,” Sam says.

Just then, the last piece of the puzzle suddenly slots into place.

“She’s afraid,” Dean says, whirling around on Sam. “She’s lonely too. She keeps taking them but they won’t stay with her. They always leave, they move on. But she’s stuck here.”

Sam gives Dean a sharp, keen look he’ll worry about later, when they have the time. “Something’s keeping her from moving on too,” he says. “Maybe Dolly? Or the house itself?”

“Cas said there was something rotten in the foundation here,” Dean says, casting his eyes to the puke-green carpet underfoot. “Starting to think he was being literal.”

* * *

After some arguing and cajoling, the old woman grabs a flashlight from behind the counter and shoves it into Sam’s hand. 

“I’m not going down there,” she says, backing away from both of them as if they’re toxic. “Mellie’s—Mellie is my baby.”

“Ma’am,” Sam says, clutching the flashlight against his chest, “I’m _so_ sorry.”

Dolly shakes her head, eyes glittering with unspent tears. “Mellie is a good girl,” she says, sniffling, rubbing the back of her hand across her face. “Was.”

“What happened?” Dean asks, gently, resting his hands on the chipped yellowing countertop. 

In the harsh light of day, the whole place looks old, rundown, sagging. Not as quaint and cute as it did when they’d first arrived. It looks tired.

“Man rented a room here,” Dolly says, producing a box of Kleenex from behind the counter. She plucks out a few sheets and dabs at her eyes. “Married man, wife and a couple kids. Mellie was just—I never seen her like that before. Completely taken with him. Told me ‘Ma, me and him are gonna run off together.’ ”

“I take it he backed out,” Sam says, twisting his mouth into a sad smile.

Dolly nods. “Said he couldn’t leave his family for her. Next day, Mellie jumped off the bridge,” she says.

“She was the first victim,” Dean says. 

“And she’s still here,” Sam adds. “Is she…”

“I can’t let her go.” Dolly sniffles. “I got no one else. It was just me and Mellie. You gotta understand. I can’t just let her go.”

Sam sighs and rubs at his mouth. “Mellie’s in the cellar,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

“She’s my little girl.” Dolly’s voice shatters on a sob. 

“She’s hurting people,” Dean says, touching her shoulder. “I know you love her. You’re her mom, you’re trying to protect her. But she’s angry. She’s trapped, she’s lonely, and people are dying.”

Dolly presses her hands over her face. “She’s all I got left.” 

“Your daughter is suffering,” Sam cuts in, his voice soft and low. “She’s in pain. All these years, all the deaths… We can help her. But you gotta let her go.”

Dolly flicks watery eyes at Sam and then Dean. “You can help her?”

Sam nods. “Is Mellie nearby?”

Dolly dabs at her eyes with her Kleenex. “She’s in the—”

“The foundation,” Dean finishes for her, looking over her head to Sam.

* * *

It doesn’t take them long at all to find Mellie’s body. 

There’s a little root cellar in the basement, partially underground. When Sam pries it open with a crowbar, the stench that fills the stale air around them tells them all they need to know.

Sam is the one who crawls in and gently lifts the dead girl’s bones from the cellar and places them on a freshly laundered bedsheet. Dean helps him roll the body up and secure it with a bungee cord he’d grabbed from the Impala’s trunk. 

Sam bundles the bones and takes them to where the pond had been. Dean watches him from the window of the honeymoon suite. Soon plumes of gray-black smoke rise up to a cloudless blue sky. 

Dean turns and glances at the trench coat he’s unpacked from his pillowcase. He wanders back over to the bed and leans down, ticking his fingernail against one of the shiny brown buttons. 

An old silver lighter rests on the nightstand. 

He sits on the end of the bed with a sigh and picks the coat up. Twists his hands in the beige material and closes his eyes. 

_Knowing you has changed me. Because you cared, I cared. I cared about you._

Dean opens his eyes and stares down at the coat. Tears splash against the buttons and darken the material from tan to a deeper shade of brown.

“I have to let you go,” he tells the buttons, zeroing in on them until everything else around him falls away. It’s easier for him to talk to the coat, like Cas is really here, listening but just out of reach. “Don’t gotta choice, man.”

Dean looks back at the gleaming silver lighter. 

He could do it right there in the bathroom. He has all he needs.

He curls his fists in the coat, reluctant to let go. 

Dolly had finally let her daughter go. Shouldn’t Dean do the same for Cas?

He traces a finger over a loose thread. 

_I love you. Goodbye, Dean._

Dean closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. He lets it out and imagines a weight lifting off his shoulders. He loosens his grip on Cas’s coat too, letting it fall into his lap.

There’s a faint sound that reminds him of the fluttering of wings. Something warm and familiar touches his shoulder, then squeezes tight. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean leaps off the bed, hand flying to the back of his belt before he remembers he’d stuffed his gun in the nightstand. 

Cas lifts his hand in a wave, corners of his mouth curling into a fond smile. The apples of his cheeks are tinged lightly with pink and his blue eyes are shining. He looks good. More than that, he looks _alive_.

“Cas? Are you—is this—” Dean doesn’t bother finishing the question. He all but throws himself around Cas like a blanket, wrapping him up tight in his arms. 

“You and your brother set us both free,” Cas says, his hands landing big and firm on Dean’s shoulder blades. “I fought my way out of the Empty, but that’s another story for another day.”

“Were you why me and Sam ended up here?” Dean steps back to hold Cas at arm’s length. 

“It was the coat,” Cas says, nodding to the rumpled pile on the floor. “It called me here. And then Mellie wouldn’t let me leave.”

Dean stares at Cas for a long moment. He can’t quite meet Dean’s eyes, the pink in his cheeks deepening, and Dean realizes he’s feeling shy. 

He tugs Cas in and catches his mouth with a gentle kiss. Cas leans into it without hesitation, his fingers sliding into the collar of Dean’s henley. Cas’s lips are chapped, his stubble scrapes against Dean’s face, and his breath is honestly kind of sour, but it’s still the sweetest kiss Dean’s ever had. 

When they break apart, Dean rests his hands over his shoulders and presses his forehead against Cas’s.

“You were trying to warn me,” he says, brushing another kiss against Cas’s mouth. “You were there the whole time.”

“I certainly tried my best,” Cas says, slipping a finger under the collar of Dean’s shirt. “Her grief was very powerful.”

Dean closes his eyes hard and sees starbursts behind his eyelids. “Are you really here now, Cas?” he asks, leaning in, stealing another kiss from him. “Or is there some lesson I’m supposed to learn? Am I supposed to let you go?”

“I promise you I’m really here,” Cas says, fingers sliding over Dean’s cheeks to cup at his face. “You don’t have to let me go unless you want to.”

“Will you stay?” Dean asks, squeezing his shoulders, unsure what he might do if Cas does flap off somewhere without him after everything they’ve gone through. 

“Of course,” Cas says, smiling at Dean with all the warmth of the sun.

Dean leans in and kisses him again, fingers playing at the collar of his coat before slipping up into his hair. 

There are so many more questions Dean wants the answers to, but right now none of that matters. In a few minutes, Sam will be back and it’ll be time for them to roll out. There will be more hunts in the not so distant future. There’ll be time for questions and answers.

Right now, in this room, in his arms, Dean has everything he needs.


End file.
